


Scum

by travellinghopefully



Series: Jamie and Malcolm [4]
Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 16:31:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4673678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/travellinghopefully/pseuds/travellinghopefully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Early on in Malcolm and Jamie's relationship</p><p>Copious smut - then, it goes horribly wrong</p><p>Violence is not connected to smut in any way shape or form - I don't think I could ever write that</p><p>Things probably work out....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

That morning

Awakening wrapped in Malcolm’s arms was something new. Dozing in a post orgasmic glow, that was common place, well now....but sleeping that hadn’t happened before.

Every time, you went home, it was easier, he awoke at the arse end of the morning, given a chance you would sleep ‘til the afternoon – so you left, you went home, you kept nothing at Malcolm’s, not a toothbrush, not a disposable razor.

Waking up with him nuzzled against your shoulder, looking years younger as sleep erased the lines and the anger and feeling his hard cock pressing into your thigh, one arm wrapped round your chest, one leg between yours, this was new and good. Smiling, you allowed your nose to press into his hair and breathe him in – fucking soft, that’s what you were, a great, soft poof. He stirred against you, pressing himself more firmly into you and against you. A mumbled sleepy mornin’ – he didn’t just lurch out of bed and into the shower, or roll away from you. His hand was on your arse, softly massaging and his lips and tongue were doing amazing things along your collar bone and throat. 

Don’t look at the clock you willed. 

Putting your hand in his hair you moved his head so you could kiss him properly.

He didn’t shove you away, he deepened the kiss and allowed himself to moan softly as your tongues danced. He lifted you over his lap (his strength never failed to astonish you – you never said “weedy little fucker” out loud – he would snap you in two), you wrapped your legs round his waist, lazily stroking his cock with one hand and tangling your fingers in his hair.

Malcolm kept things slow, touching, but not quite enough, not fast enough, not hard enough not deep enough – he was driving you fucking wild. You sucked on the skin just beneath his ear, his sweet spot. He gripped you harder and rocked you both in an easy rhythm. You bit and licked and kissed and sucked along his jaw. Reaching his mouth you sucked his bottom lip between your teeth and bit. The rasp of his stubble against yours added an extra dimension and you found yourself rubbing your face against his, cupping his jaw with your hand, fucking lost in kissing him. 

You watched him reach for the lube from the bedside table, you captured his hand and sucked on his fingers. He shook his head at you, he knew it wouldn’t be enough, and you relented with one last swirl of your tongue – allowing him to slick his fingers with the cold and slippery gel. 

The things he could do with his fingers, more than once he’d made you come, working them just so inside you, reducing you to a quivering ecstatic mess. You fucked yourself against his fingers, matching the pace with your own hand wrapped round his cock. You wanted to suck him, feel the heat of him pulsing in your mouth, but you didn’t want to give up what you were both doing. Too good, despite the slow pace you were so close, you could feel Malcolm was near too, but he would never fucking come first. Messy, breathless, open mouthed kisses, slumped against each other, gasping.

The temptation was to just stay wrapped in his warm embrace, resting on his chest, your sweat slowly cooling, your heart beat slowing and calming. And you did fall back asleep, not for long enough, but you woke with him rolling out from under you and away. The sound you made was somewhere between a whine and a whimper. But you didn’t trust yourself to ask him to put everything else on hold and just stay in bed for the day – you didn’t want to know that you were less important than work.

"Shower."

How the fuck was he hard, again, did the man have no recovery time ?– he put you to shame, although he coaxed more out of you than you thought you had. 

OK, Malcolm naked was good, however skinny he was, Malcolm naked and hot and wet, could be your new favourite thing. 

Looking Malcolm up and down, storing the image in your brain for forever – the water running over him – oh fuck. 

You stepped in the shower and wrapped your arms round Malcolm and intending to kiss him, you found yourself just holding him against you, adoring how he felt, luxuriating in the feeling of him in your arms. He took your arms, raised them above your head and pressed you against the wall – when his fingers fell away from your wrists you braced yourself against the wall. He put his fingers to better use, sliding into you, working you open, hitting that perfect spot. Long seconds, stretching into infinity before he began to push his glorious long, thick length into you. The shower was masking the sounds you were making? Yeah? He wouldn’t hear you keening and moaning with every slow thrust – you felt him slide almost all the way out and push so slowly back. Shutting your eyes tight, and clenching your teeth, you pushed back against him, willing him to move faster, to thrust harder.

You still couldn’t quite abandon yourself to this, couldn't ask for what you wanted, too much Catholic guilt and disbelief still, that this was Malcolm, and he appeared to want you.

A convenient, willing fuck, that’s what you’d thought you were, now, now you weren’t so sure. Malcolm so focused on work, so driven, so immune to every day distractions, and yet, here you were, more and more often in his bed.

Malcolm must have sensed your mind wandering and he bit down against your shoulder, firmly caressed your balls – just the right side of pain. Then you didn’t care what sounds you made, what words you uttered, you didn’t give a fuck about guilt, you just wanted Malcolm to keep doing everything, his cock, his mouth his hands. Legs shaking and you were so close. Malcolm’s rhythm was frantic, and then you felt him still and rest his head against your back. A brief pause and his hand moved over your cock, teasing the head, the balls, working you faster and faster ‘til you were coming for the second time that morning – gasping and moaning, sounding for all the world like some cheap porn star whore.

Fuck, the things he did to you. One of Malcolm’s arms was firmly wrapped round your waist, holding you, keeping you anchored. He was lazily kissing your shoulder, then, too soon, he turned off the shower, slapped your arse hard and uttered one word.

“Work.”

Best way to start the day ever. 

Even if he didn’t let you stay over, you wondered if you could petition him for early morning office sex – every day – he had to see that it was infinitely better than coffee and chewed up and spat out journalists? You tried to erase the dopey grin from your face.


	2. That evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> violence and the aftermath
> 
> no smut
> 
> no fluff
> 
> just angst
> 
> relatively short

No-one had ever been so perfect, it had been so unexpected. They still saw other people (not that they talked about it), but they saw each other more. The sex was still glorious, intense, fantastic, as hot as hell and just thinking about him. We spent time with each other, we ate together, watched tv together, spent time on the sofa just curled up with each other. Fuck it, he was my boyfriend – really, at our age, was that the word? Significant other maybe – that sounded less like we were 12. 

Dubious electrics, mould, damp, peeling paint and paper, window that didn’t keep out noise or weather.

Pizza boxes, dirty laundry, newspapers, dishes, detritus – a fucking mess. Too many hours at work and never enough hours left over.

He hadn’t wanted Malcolm to see this, he didn’t want him to be here, he’d told him to wait in the car.

For reasons he didn’t remember they had stopped at his flat. Malcolm had looked round with horror, incredulity and distaste. He didn’t sit down, not that there was any free space, he didn’t take off his coat or scarf, and he looked as if he touched anything he would be contaminated.

“How the fuck can you live like this?”

You hesitated to say. You didn’t need him to know that you still sent most of your income home to your mam. Your fucking excuse for a father hadn’t worked since the steelworks had closed, wouldn’t accept re-training, wouldn’t even look for work – so of course, there were no benefits. There was no fucking way your younger brother was going to have to leave uni (you would never tell him how fucking proud of him you were of him) and your sister, still at home, training to be a nurse, the baby of the family still at school and his big brother who should shoulder some of the responsibility onto his third wife, paying maintenance and child support to fuck knows how many other women. 

No, Malcolm wasn’t going to know any of this.

“Love, no, this won’t do.” Malcolm swept his hand, his gesture encompassed everything.

You prepared to argue, you prepared to fight. You’d been together long enough that you fought and argued spectacularly. You hated this, you hated the way you lived, but you didn’t need him to fucking tell you. Your insides roiled with the pettiness and meanness of your existence – the fucking bastard was the only good thing and he was not going to fucking judge you. Your brain had already closed down to the possibility that he might be doing something other than criticising.

“I told you to fucking wait in the car you sanctimonious cunt.”

He held his hands up, not wanting the fight they were already in. He began to speak and you just wanted him to stop, to rewind this somehow.

“This place is a fucking cesspit.” Why couldn’t he have just have kept his fucking mouth shut?

And that’s when you lost it. You punched him, you felt his teeth against your fist, you felt the crunch in your knuckles and watched his lip split, the blood ooze out and the look, of what exactly crossing his face, disbelief maybe?

You didn’t want sympathy, you didn’t want pity, you lost sense and reason.

He didn’t raise his hands,he didn't ward off your blows. The smack of your elbow against him, another punch, and he just fucking took it and the next and the next until you knocked him to the ground, and you didn’t stop. Adrenaline fizzing through you and kicked him so hard in the ribs that you heard something snap.

That’s when you stopped, that’s when the rage dropped away and you just felt sick and cold. Weak kneed, dizzy, drained. Before you could say anything, before you could reach out at hand, before you could beg, Malcolm somehow scrambled to his feet, didn’t say anything and was off and out and down the stairs and you heard the door slam and the car race away and you fell to your knees and howled. What the fuck had you done? You threw up, foul acid burning your mouth and splattering over your trousers.

 

You scrabbled under the sink and found the bottle of cheap vodka you’d stashed there, you didn’t bother with a glass, just pouring the ghastly stuff down your throat ‘til the image of Malcolm curled in on himself on your floor, ‘til the hideous sound of his ribs snapping blurred and span away from you, ‘til you passed out. Oblivion wasn’t granted you and you woke screaming from a nightmare, you threw up over yourself again and remembered – and the pain in your head was nothing compared to the pain in your heart – what had you fucking done. 

He could have hit you back, for all he was thin as fuck, he was strong and wiry and brutal. He could have punched you, he could have stopped you. Why had the cunt not just dropped him? Why wasn’t it you in physical agony? Anything would be better than the mental torment you were in. 

You looked for another bottle, might as well keep going with the wise decisions.

You kicked a cupboard door off its hinges, oh fuck, the sound, a sob forced its way up your throat, you fought against it, the same as everything else. 

You couldn’t stand the flat, you couldn’t stand yourself. 

Throwing off your ruined clothes you scrubbed yourself raw in the shower. You broke when you saw his blood running off your hands. Long after the water ran cold you were curled in a ball on the floor, sobbing.


	3. And after that

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short!
> 
> More imaginary back story, one teensy sentimental bit
> 
> could have inflicted more incidental harm on Ollie (I really don't like Ollie)
> 
> (continues to nurse irrational hatred of imaginary person)

Name calling, threats, calls, texts, none of that was going happen.

You wanted to find a note on your desk, telling you you were fired – he was too fucking professional for that – professional always.

He was yours, then he wasn’t – you had irredeemable fucked things up. You had no way back, you had thrown what you had away, and there was nothing you could do. Say sorry? Send fucking flowers? You were helpless and that made the rage stronger and your decisions worse.

Going into work had been torture, expecting to see him, dreading the look in his eyes, seeing the physical hurt you’d inflicted. Malcolm had seen you as something better, you didn’t want to be the monster again – might as well accept it, the monster was all you had left. 

Self pitying, useless fucking, cunting prick.

Malcolm didn’t come in to work, that day, or the next – not ‘til the following week. Julius asked you about him, you shrugged non-committally, you didn’t make eye contact.

You didn’t eat, you didn’t sleep, you drank.

His face was black and purple, his eye still swollen shut, his lip crusted over. He held himself stiffly and when he coughed, he couldn’t hide the flash of pain that crossed his face.

Every time you closed your eyes – that’s what you saw.

He said nothing to you. Nothing.

You didn’t sleep, you drank more.

Everyone in the office talking, gossiping, saying Malcolm had finally gotten his comeuppance, pushed someone’s buttons once too often, gotten the kicking he deserved. You wanted to rage and scream, Malcolm had done nothing wrong (well nothing warranting this) and there was nothing you could do to put it right.  
This went far too far beyond saying sorry. You’d allowed your stubborn shitty pride, the one thing that you’d thought it was ok to have, to take away the thing that mattered.

You loved Malcolm.

You’d thrown up when you’d realised that, realised what you’d lost. He’d made your career, he’d made space for you in his life – you still couldn’t believe that. And you’d just pissed over it. What had your pride cost you? You’d never loved anyone. 

No-one had loved you.

Fuck, oh fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

You were going to rip Ollie’s spleen out, sauté it with habaneros and feed it too him – or maybe pour acid on his eyeballs, or something – you didn’t think you could feel worse about yourself right now, but Ollie somehow managed to make it worse. Every thing he said, every thing he did, yeah, beating Ollie to pulp would make him feel so much better....

“Awa an bile yer feckin heid” was the most civil thing Malcolm said to anyone. No-one dared to ask him any questions, but everyone talked and gossiped and speculated, until the obvious bruising and swelling was gone.

He didn’t talk to you.

Drinking was the only thing you still did.

Called into HR told to take time off, told you to pull yourself together – your work had fallen apart, without Malcolm to direct you, to rein you in, you’d reverted to plain feral, told one too many MPs you were going to make a neck tie out of their balls, finally punching Ollie – the sound of his flesh under your fist snapping your mind.

As you walked away you checked your in tray – getting ready to tip it into the bin, not planning to come back.

A small, padded brown envelope, Malcolm’s writing. You took that with you.

Stopping in the supermarket you bought more drink.

Home, no, you’d never called this place home. 

You threw your coat on the floor, forgetting the envelope, forgetting everything as you drank.

You didn’t count the days, you didn’t answer the door, you stamped on your phone.

Self pity only went so far, so did despair. You were fucking Scottish, you were meant to be miserable. 

A letter had arrived from home, just the normal blether, aunties, cousins, weddings, the garden, the dog, family. The shame it elicited in you was enough to make you grab a roll of bin liners and start clearing the mess that surrounded and threatened to engulf you. You couldn’t clean inside your head, but you could do this. 

You didn’t look at what you were stuffing into the bags, just focused on working quickly, glad for a distraction that was working. Then you realised you’d stuffed your coat into the last bag and dragged it out, setting it on the pile to take to the cleaners.

The envelope from Malcolm fell on the floor. Your first instinct was to put it in with the rest of the rubbish. But you never could resist poking at a scab, the lure of pain was too great.

You ripped it open.

A CD fell out. 

Al Jolson.

Malcolm must have figured it would be the only thing he could give you you wouldn’t instantly bin. You’d never said to anyone why you loved this music, why it was precious to you. The one tender relationship you’d had was with your grandpa, you’d work up the allotment with him and then home for tea with him and nan. On the special, golden days he would get out his 78s and play them. Nan and Grandpa would dance and it was always Al Jolson. All Malcolm knew was that Al Jolson was sacrosanct – anyone could disrespect anything else, take the piss, rip apart, but not this – and Malcolm had remembered.

You opened the case. 

A key. 

A key ring.

A letter.

You read the letter and put your head in your hands and sobbed.

“Come home, I miss you.”

The key ring was inscribed “Jamie’s”


	4. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will he?
> 
> no smut (well, the teensiest bit), no violence, hopefully no sentimentality, just feels a little fluffy - smidgen of angst

Leaving everything, you raced towards the tube.

You were going to throw up again, you were sweating, your heart was pounding, but you arrived. 

You circled the streets surrounding Malcolm’s house, letting the driving rain soak into you, not caring. You couldn’t take the final few steps to the door. You sat on a park bench and one of crusties offered you a swig from whatever was in his brown paper bag – you’d drunk yourself into oblivion the night before and the ones before that and you waved the bottle away with mumbled thanks before throwing up again. The derelict sitting with you commiserated.

You were sick with hope. Something was fluttering in your chest, you contemplated running and letting it die, and you along with it.

His door.

You just couldn’t do it. You turned away and headed for the tube and home.

Racing footsteps behind you – you braced yourself for a mugger, or worse. 

A hand on your shoulder – you braced and tensed and turned, ready to fight.

Malcolm jerked back – and you would have given the whole world to erase the look of fear that crossed his face, no, not fear, misery.

“Did you not get the key? Will you not just come home with me you daft cunt?”

Sobbing in the rain didn’t count, no-one can see your tears. You stumbled after him. He paused and there on the street, heedless of anyone and everything, he wrapped his arms around you and kissed you. Warmth and forgiveness wrapped themselves around you. You didn’t deserve this – your chest was going to explode. Rubbing your back – stroking your hair – keeping his arms wrapped round you – supporting you home. How the fuck was he forgiving you, how could he bear to touch you?

Stumbling together, he somehow brought you to the house and inside. He ran a bath for you, prised you out of your cold, wet clothes – he sat behind you and washed your hair and your back, his hands running gently over your arms and your chest – and you couldn’t stop shaking. He held you.

He somehow found clothes that would fit you. He surrounded you with comfort and reassurance and softness. Every time you opened your mouth to speak, your throat closed. He held you and took you to bed and he lay still with his arms round you, your head on his chest. He said the softest, kindest, gentlest things, trying to soothe you and you wanted to hit him all over again – you didn’t deserve this, you didn’t deserve him. 

Rage bubbled in you, fear twisted your insides. Images of his bruises, his pain, the sounds, replayed themselves over and over in your head, you wanted to run to go away and never come back, to anywhere to anything. How could he be holding you in his arms, how could he be whispering your name over and over as reverently as a litany?

You both lay awake and he listened as you told him everything, when you could finally find words. Your family, your pride, your rage, your responsibility, your sorrow. He kept holding you, stroked your hair, kissed you when you faltered and cried. When you sobbed brokenly, tears and snot running down your face, he held you. He cradled you in his arms your face buried against his neck as you finally fell asleep.

When you woke screaming from the same nightmare, he was still holding you. 

He shushed you when you raged against him, demanding to know how he could forgive you, how he could look at you, how he could bear to touch you?

He stroked his fingers over your face, waited for you to pause and still, and he told you that he loved you. He swore a lot and looked angry, but you could see the twinkle in his eyes, the tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth that was almost a smile. And you realised he thought after all this, you would reject him and you were crying again – incoherent, until finally you could say the words to him too.

How he looked, that was what you’d seen before, half fear, half hope, all love, and Malcolm had thought you’d reject him. You were both truly stupid cunts.

He kissed you so softly on the corner of your mouth, unwrapped his arms from round you and sat back. He looked deep into your eyes and begged you to fuck him as if you were the most precious thing in the world to him.

Kissing him softly, exploring his mouth gently with your tongue, you allowed your hands to drift and wander over him, recalling all the places he loved to be touched – listening carefully for any moan, the tiniest of needy whines. Keeping everything soft and slow and gentle. Malcolm was losing it, biting against you, pleading with you, his begging losing coherence – not wanting gentle, just wanting to fuck, just wanting to fucking come. His fingernails were scraping down your back, his mouth was kissing and licking and sucking any part of you he could reach, and you weren’t sure you could do this. 

“Stop.”

Oh fuck, the look on his face.

“No, no...”

You cupped his face with your hand, traced your thumb over his lips and he sucked you into his mouth, his tongue, hot and wet and simply glorious, but you pulled your thumb back, ignoring the wonderfully obscene pop.

“I want you, so much, but I can’t do this now – I’m overwhelmed, everything – fuck, I can’t say what I’m thinking. I don’t even know what I’m thinking. Can we just wait, sleep, wait ‘til I’m less of a mess?”

He kissed you, his arms around you, the whole of him pressed against you. Then he kissed you on the forehead.

“I love you.”

“Sleep.”

“We have tomorrow, and tomorrow and everyday after.”

There were no nightmares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always
> 
> Hate this - tell me
> 
> Love this - tell me
> 
> Email me
> 
> OK, I am a shameless attention whore

**Author's Note:**

> Serious consequences ensue if you drink this much and you neglect your mental health
> 
> It is never ever OK for someone to hit you - if they do it once, they will do it again
> 
> This is fiction - not a how too guide
> 
> Look after yourselves!
> 
> *steps off soap box*
> 
> and I promise I am still writing other things - honest


End file.
